Path to the Sword
by bbqberticus
Summary: Murtagh Morzansson is a seven-year old with a reputation. When Tornac is ordered by Galbatorix to train the boy in swordsmanship, he realizes he will have to break Murtagh or suffer the king's wrath.
1. Chapter 1

_**Thank you in advance to anyone who takes the time to read/review~ I appreciate you so very much! I hope this short little story is enjoyable!**_

* * *

 **Path to the Sword  
** **Part One**

Anyone else receiving a direct request from King Galbatorix would have been honored, but Tornac approached his new assignment with dread.

Effective immediately, he was to become the latest tutor for Morzan's orphaned child. Latest because the last few tutors had abandoned their duties quite suddenly. Two of the tutors opted to abandon their positions in the court altogether to avoid the task. If this child was as awful as he heard, Tornac wanted no part of it.

In the courtyard of Urû'baen Castle, he saw the royal guard keeping watch over his new charge.

Outwardly, the boy appeared harmless enough. His hair was neatly trimmed and had the color of a rich brown tea. He wore a crimson tunic laced with gold, black leggings, and boots, typical wear of a nobleman's child. Overall, he looked the part of any other boy.

However, Murtagh Morzansson was a seven-year old with a reputation. The moment Tornac approached and made his presence known, the boy lifted his stormy gray eyes off the stone walkway. If looks could kill, Tornac would have been dead. Such hostility and rage flashed in the child's eyes that it was suffocating. That was when Tornac noticed the guards were standing at a distance. He could not decide if that was by their choice or the boy's.

"You must be Murtagh," started Tornac with a sigh. The boy's eye twitched. "My name is Tornac. Moving forward, I will take over your training with the sword."

"I have no interest in swords," Murtagh told him curtly, and venom dripped from his lips. "You may leave." At this, the guards shifted uncomfortably. The boy was not armed, and Tornac did not understand their discomfort. If attitude was the worst this child had to offer, it was an easier task than expected.

"I will not," replied Tornac calmly, and he folded his arms across his chest. The boy clasped his hands into fists and resented his response. "And you will develop an interest in swords, this I assure you. Moving forward, you will train with one in your hand several hours of every day. Familiarize yourself with them." Tornac turned to leave. Already he determined he would fight fire with fire. "Come." When the boy did not move, he said with force, "Come or I will carry you like the child that you are."

At this the guards were stunned. Murtagh, too, blinked in surprise, and then he grinded his teeth. Finally, he followed, and Tornac led him to the private training grounds of Galbatorix where they would carry out their lessons.

Training began immediately.

* * *

Several weeks later, Tornac knew why everyone quit. Murtagh was stubborn as a mule. No matter what, he refused to touch a sword, and if someone forced it into his hand, he threw it. Never had he thrown it _at_ someone, but Tornac did not put it past him. People shied away from the practice grounds for that very reason.

On several occasions, whenever he was scolded, the boy pushed shelves of armor and other gear to the ground. Once he kicked an iron helmet halfway across the field, and for that Tornac was slightly impressed. When he had nothing to kick or throw or push to the ground, Murtagh would slander Tornac with language a boy of seven should not know or would sit in the dirt in a quiet rage. Tornac had yet to decide what he thought was worse.

However, none of this was what made the task truly difficult, he realized. What made the task nigh impossible was King Galbatorix. Twice had the king approached Tornac for reports of progress, and after learning the second time that Murtagh had yet to touch a sword, he was not pleased. Murtagh was not dangerous—it was the king who held such high expectations for him that was.

Tornac went to the training grounds early one day and found Murtagh already there. The boy was engrossed in a book and, for once, was not scowling. He approached without being noticed and leaned over the child to peek at what he read, but Murtagh saw his shadow and slammed the book shut, tucking it securely under his arm. His death-giving look returned to his face.

"I thought we would try something new today," Tornac began, and he pulled a lance off a rack on the wall of the training hall.

"I will throw it," Murtagh promised him, and he set the book down with care on a nearby shelf full of armor.

"It is not a sword," he insisted, hoping it would make a difference.

After showing the boy how to hold it proper, he handed it over. Lo and behold, Murtagh spun and hurled it across the field. It went nearly just as far as the iron helmet and stuck up straight in the ground. Tornac sighed, but again he was a little impressed.

"At least your arm works."

Murtagh went to the shelf, took his book and sat down. He ignored Tornac for the rest of the day.

* * *

Moving forward, Tornac tried everything to get the boy to obey him. At first he tried strict discipline, and that was the greatest disaster of all. Murtagh responded to yelling with hysterical fits of rage, and if anyone dared to even lay a finger on him, he fought back. Then Tornac tried to ally himself with the boy, but Murtagh was about as approachable as a Fanghur. Attempts at conversation were met with silence or, increasingly more often, lesser fits of rage. Once Murtagh had been so annoyed with him that he threw his book at him which, as Tornac came to realize, was a desperate act, for the boy so did love his books. Once Tornac had tried to punish him like a child, sending him to his quarters without dinner—he found out later that Murtagh climbed out a window, scaled a wall, stole his way into the kitchen and threw away everyone's biscuits just to spite him. Again, he was a little impressed.

Tornac also learned that Murtagh treated everyone with similar disdain. Most people avoided him, for they wanted nothing to do with Morzan's child, and many had faced his wrath and learned to stay away. A few people tried to use Murtagh to get close to Galbatorix, for everyone knew he held the king's favor as Morzan's son, and those that wormed their way into the boy's life often used their leverage maliciously, abandoning Murtagh once his purpose had been served. Murtagh never let anyone close enough for it to bother him, or so it seemed.

After having a third meeting with Galbatorix and receiving a veiled threat from the king's lips, Tornac decided he had to make this work or die. He spoke with anyone who had dealt with the child prior to his meeting him in order to figure out how he even came to be the way that he was.

"He is Morzan's son," commented a knight. "Of course he has his father's rage."

Most people said things of a similar nature.

"He was skittish, like a wild animal," said a woman who had tended to the boy when he first arrived in Urû'baen. "He used to cry for his mother every night, thought we were keeping her away. Tried telling him she was dead and he would just get angry."

Tornac continued following this path until he met the nursemaid who cared for Murtagh since birth. She lived in Urû'baen but avoided the royal courts, and she explained that Murtagh was the reason for her decision.

"Do not give him a sword," said the woman, heatedly. Tornac thought at first she considered the boy dangerous, but then she explained, "His father threw a sword at him once. Nearly let him die. Still has a scar on his back because we were not allowed to heal him proper. Morzan wanted him to suffer." At this, she took a drink of undiluted whisky. "The king will treat him no different. Boy is doomed to be his father because of it." Then she had another drink.

Tornac dwelled on his newly acquired knowledge, and his stomach twisted in anger. How old had Murtagh been when under his father's care? How old had he been when his father threw a sword at him? He had never heard of this and wondered if it was true. Nevertheless, he took it into consideration.

* * *

During his next training session with Murtagh, Tornac approached the boy, waved his hand and said, "Follow me."

Murtagh was irritated to have to put his book down, but he obeyed. At least he could get the boy to follow him around. Tornac led him out of the castle and into the city below. Murtagh was terribly confused but said absolutely nothing, and his eyes wandered every which way. Likely he did not get to leave the castle often. Tornac led him to an enormous building and ushered him inside.

Inside, rows upon rows of Alagaësia's largest collection of books and scrolls were housed on shelves within the library. Murtagh froze in the doorway and stared, and for the first time he looked appropriately his age—his eyes were wide with wonder.

"Select any two that you like," Tornac told him, folding his arms and leaning against the wall near the door. "I already received permission to take them back to the castle."

Murtagh blinked at him, and then along came the look of death. Tornac half expected the boy to tip over a bookshelf in rebellion. Finally, the child simply said, "No."

"Your loss," Tornac said without concern. He turned to the door. "Let's return to the castle."

"No," repeated Murtagh without moving.

"Which is it?" Tornac asked, and he set his hands on his sides, tapping the foot of his boot on the floor. "No to choosing a book or no to returning to the castle?"

"No," said the boy again, and he looked around the library in longing.

So Tornac had found a weakness. Selecting a book meant that Murtagh accepted Tornac's suggestion, and Murtagh knew that as well as he did. However, returning to the castle meant Murtagh did not get a book. He was torn, and so instead of doing anything, he stood and protested quietly.

"If it helps, it will be our secret," Tornac explained. "No one knows we are here."

Murtagh considered his options carefully, and then he turned slowly and went deeper into the library. Tornac felt the corners of his lips tug upwards, but he resisted a smile lest the boy notice and throw a fit to spite him. He kept an eye on him at all times, moving as needed, to ensure he did not lose the boy, and after nearly an hour, Murtagh returned with two thick, heavy volumes. The boy refused to make eye contact, but he clung to the books so tightly that Tornac was certain he was satisfied.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Murtagh nodded, and so they returned to the castle training grounds.

Tornac sat on the elevated wood walkway, leaning against a post. He crossed his arms and his ankles and then said, "Well, what did you choose?" Murtagh remained at a distance and did not answer, and so he continued, "You and I both know we are not training with swords today. You may as well share with me what you have. I do tire of watching you read."

Of course Murtagh still wanted nothing to do with him, and the boy sat apart from him, in the dirt, and read his books quietly to himself until sunset. Then he took the books to his room, and no one heard from him for the rest of the night.

* * *

For the next several days, Murtagh read his books and Tornac allowed him to do so. Every now and again he attempted to read over the boy's shoulder, but Murtagh shied away from him and once tried to hit him with the book. Tornac threatened to take the books away, and Murtagh never did it again. When he finished with those books, Tornac brought him back to the library.

"Two more, if you like," Tornac told him, and he returned the first two books.

Now Murtagh did not hesitate. He went through the library and returned quickly with a large book and a dusty scroll bound by a leather band. Now _that_ was an unusual choice. They returned to the training grounds, and Murtagh sat in the dirt as he always did while Tornac sat on the walkway.

"What is that scroll?" Tornac asked, and he was genuinely curious.

"A history of Alagaësia," Murtagh told him, and his immediate response nearly took the wind right out of Tornac's lungs. "Supposedly recorded by one of the first humans who settled here."

Tornac leaned against a post and folded his arms. "Read it to me."

Murtagh frowned as he unraveled the scroll. "You can read it yourself."

"Yes, but at present it is in your hands, and I am bored," he replied. "You have caused me many weeks of extreme tedium, and I think it only right and fair that you at least do something to alleviate it."

"You can leave," suggested Murtagh, scanning the scroll.

"And find myself in prison," Tornac responded with a laugh. "Or have you forgotten King Galbatorix assigned me to you?"

"I do not care," answered the boy.

"You should," Tornac chided him.

Murtagh looked up from the scroll and met eyes with him—really met eyes with him—for the first time. It was a strange look, as though the boy were noticing he was a human for the first time, and then he went back to his scroll. Thus ended their interaction for that day.

The following day, Murtagh met him at the training grounds with book and scroll in hand, and he handed Tornac the scroll before taking his place in the dirt. Tornac raised an eyebrow.

"I do not want to read it today," Murtagh informed him in passing, and he opened his book. "I do not believe the information is accurate anyhow. I am not interested in it anymore."

Tornac smiled, but Murtagh did not notice. Together, they sat and read for the remainder of the day.

* * *

After another few weeks of library trips and reading sessions, Tornac was called to meet with Galbatorix. He reported his progress as best he could while also telling the king that Murtagh had yet to hold a sword. Thinly veiled threats suddenly became assured promises. If Tornac did not _break_ Murtagh soon, as the king so gently told him, he would be dragged behind a horse and then hanged.

His next meeting with Murtagh was difficult. He did not want to _break_ this child. Certainly he had wanted to put Murtagh in his place in the beginning, to teach the boy respect, but now he understood why he rebelled. His father had been cruel, both of his parents were dead, he had been passed around as if a burden and people treated him poorly or used him for their own personal gain. Furthermore, the king demanded obedience from him and wanted him to take the place of his father whom he hated.

Murtagh had a full lifetime of trauma only within seven short years, so of course he lashed out.

Still, he had no choice but to try _something._ Tornac carefully thought out his plan, took Murtagh to the library as per their routine and then returned to the training grounds. Before the boy had a chance to settle down with his new reading material, Tornac pulled a bow off the wall.

"Today," he started. "I want to teach you something."

"No," Murtagh told him, and he sat in the dirt.

"I will not ask you to use a sword," Tornac explained. He took a quiver of arrows from a shelf and stepped out of the training hall. Murtagh's eyes flicked from the open page of the book up to him and then back down again. "However, I think this skill would be valuable to you. If ever anyone tried to harm you, you would be able to strike back from a distance—without allowing anyone close. Is that not more your style?"

Murtagh looked up, but he wore a frown.

"I can attest to your arm strength," Tornac continued, and now he could not help but smile. It was slight, but Murtagh's cheeks turned red. "I think archery would be a good fit for you." Setting down the quiver, he drew an arrow, aimed it and fired it across the training guard, striking a post on the other end. "I am not a skilled archer, but if you like it, I know someone who is. They can teach you the finer points once you understand the basics."

"What good is it?" Murtagh grumbled, setting his hand over the pages of the book. His expression was sad, nearly a pout. "I do not want to fight anyone."

"You think of weapons as tools to harm others," Tornac realized aloud, and Murtagh scowled at him. He went on to say, "They certainly can be. However, they are also a means to protect yourself and those important to you. And, of course, they are also a means to train your body and mind." Tapping the end of the bow against Murtagh's book, he said, "Keep your nose in a book and you will gain knowledge. Train your body and your mind and you will become wise."

"That makes no sense."

"No?" Tornac flapped a hand at him. "Let me show you."

To his surprise, Murtagh set the book down and rose. Tornac allowed the boy to hold the bow but took up position behind him, guiding his posture and his arms, pulling the bowstring and supporting the arrow—none of which he expected Murtagh to do.

"To fire an arrow, aside from physical strength, what do you suppose you need to do?"

"Aim," Murtagh stated without hesitation, and he was already displeased with his lesson. His eye wandered back to his book.

"Go ahead, then. Do as you think is right," Tornac suggested.

Murtagh sighed and shifted the arrow as best he could with Tornac's support, and then he—and Tornac—released the string. The bowstring snapped and startled the boy, and the arrow whizzed across the field and burrowed itself in the dirt.

"What were you aiming for?" Tornac asked, and Murtagh pointed at the post he had hit earlier. "Why did you miss?" To this, the boy simply shrugged. Tornac lifted another arrow and placed it in Murtagh's hand, then guided him in holding it again. Now he took charge and did even more of the work, and as he moved, he explained, "It is not merely a matter of looking and firing. One must consider things such as the type of bow and string—how strong it is—and the type of resistance your arrow will meet, how the wind will affect its course and how great the distance to your mark." Gently, he said, "This is a bow of low quality, so it will not fire easily. There is no wind, but there is much distance, and so I will aim up a little higher and—" Tornac fired the bow, and the arrow flew into the post.

Murtagh stared at the two arrows in the post, and then again he met eyes with Tornac.

"I want you to have access to knowledge, for it is a good thing," he said to the boy. "However, I want you to think. A mind that thirsts for understanding such as yours would be a poor thing to waste."

Murtagh thoughtfully took the bow from Tornac, pulling at the string to test its strength. His expression faltered, and again he looked like the sullen little brat Tornac knew well. He expected the bow to go flying. Yet Murtagh only said, "You say that because the king threatened you."

Clever boy, thought Tornac. Few people probably realized just how smart this boy was because he played it off as if he did not notice or care about anything. If he was not raging, he was disappearing in the background so as not to be noticed. But certainly was he astute and fully aware of what was going on around him, taking in and carefully processing every bit of information he could absorb. Tornac realized Murtagh had the potential to be very powerful—and dangerous.

"He did, but that is not why I speak the way I do," Tornac informed him. "I am a teacher, Murtagh. It has always been my responsibility to find weaknesses and strengths in my students in order to help them find balance and unlock their greatest potential. Most come to me willing to learn the skills of the sword and their strength lies in physical prowess. You, on the other hand, are adept in mind, and that is a rare strength indeed."

Turning the bow in his hand, Murtagh tested its weight. Hesitantly, he asked, "May I still visit the library?"

"Anytime you like," Tornac assured him. "However, when we return, I expect you to train your body. The books you may read in your leisure time, and you may keep them as long as you like until you want to exchange them for others."

Murtagh considered his options and then nodded. "Very well. I would like to learn what you can teach me."

Tornac smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read this short little story. I've had a strange fascination with the relationship between Murtagh and Tornac that I wish had been elaborated upon. Unfortunately, Murtagh is not a primary character in the IC, and so much of his back story remains a mystery. I suppose this is what fanfiction is for. Anyway, thanks so much for reading (and reviewing, if you have~)! I've just read the IC for the first time, and I'm glad to see the fandom is still alive~**_

* * *

 **Path to the Sword  
** **Part Two**

Tornac could not believe the change, for it was as vast as day to night.

Murtagh took up studying the bow with as much stubborn resolve as he did resisting practice in the first place. And he caught on quickly, probably quicker than any student Tornac had before him. Murtagh needed to know the how and why of everything, and he started asking many questions, but once he knew precisely how things worked, he mastered them with seemingly no effort at all.

He advanced so quickly that after only a few weeks, Tornac had nothing more to teach him about archery. Tornac requested a new instructor take over the boy's lessons, and though the archery instructor was _not_ happy about being brought into a relationship with Morzan's son, he obliged on account of owing Tornac a favor. Murtagh spent several hours a week with him, and both Tornac and the new instructor were pleasantly surprised. No longer was there an unruly child they had to manage, for Murtagh trained just as well with the new instructor as he did with Tornac.

Day and night.

Tornac still kept many hours of training sessions with Murtagh each day, and as was their agreement, they regularly visited the library. After returning to the training grounds, Murtagh would often show off his new skills with the bow. On more than one occasion, Murtagh offered to teach Tornac about archery, and usually the boy rambled endlessly about specific techniques and completely lost Tornac in the process.

"I ought to take you on a hunt sometime," Tornac mused one day, and he made a mental note to do so in the future. Murtagh needed a challenge, after all.

It was on a particularly cold and rainy day when Tornac suggested they go to the library, but to his surprise, Murtagh wanted to show him that he could hit a target just as easily in the rain as any other time. At the training grounds, Murtagh stood in the chilling downpour, aimed his arrow and fired. The point of the arrow shot deep into the center of the target with such force that the wooden board splintered. He took another arrow and fired again, splitting his first arrow clean through the center. A third followed and did the same. Murtagh whipped his head in Tornac's direction as if expecting applause.

"It seems our next lesson will be on humility," he teased, and Murtagh's cheeks turned red.

His student entered the training hall and left a river of water on the wood floor behind him. Murtagh's brown hair was plastered flat on his head and his clothing clung to his skin. After only a moment out of the rain, his entire body gave one great shudder, and then he shivered uncontrollably and his teeth chattered.

Despite the boy's discomfort, Tornac tipped his head towards the mess he had made. Murtagh frowned at the puddles beneath him, rubbed his arms to combat the chill and then scurried to a shelf and yanked a thin towel out from within a heap of disorganized supplies. A spare bundle of arrows and a whetstone rolled off the shelf, and Murtagh slammed them back into place before putting the towel down and sliding it through the puddles. All the while, his boots left muddy footprints throughout the hall.

"Murtagh," said Tornac, and he nodded at the dirt.

With wide eyes, Murtagh hopped out of his boots and ran them outside, as though punishing them for their offense, and then returned to clean up the mess. Crouched over with both hands pressed on the towel, he pushed it across the wood planks until the towel devoured all the grime, and then he wiped his filthy palms on his leggings.

One could only expect so much from a seven-year-old boy.

"May I go now?" Murtagh asked, leaving the towel where it lay.

"You may—" started Tornac, and his pupil turned and darted for the door. "Murtagh!" His finger aimed at the abandoned boots outside.

"Oh!" With wide eyes, Murtagh scampered across the hall, tucked a boot under each arm and then disappeared into the castle.

Tornac rubbed his face. He returned the borrowed bow to the wall and carried the quiver of arrows back to its shelf. In its place sat a dusty scroll, discarded and forgotten by Murtagh in his haste to show off his skills. Tornac took the scroll and put the quiver away. After hanging the towel to dry on the edge of a rack of armor, he left the training hall.

A damp chill hung in the air like a fog that fireless torches in the castle did nothing to alleviate. Most of the people in the castle wore wool tunics or cloaks lined with fur while Murtagh had run off with bare feet and a soaked tunic. Tornac considered throwing him in a warm bath to ensure he did not fall ill.

On his way to Murtagh's quarters, a servant girl passed Tornac a cup of steaming tea and insisted he have Murtagh drink it. Apparently she had heard him sneeze. With a scroll in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, he had a servant open the door and let him into the boy's room.

Slipping inside, he set the cup on the nearest table to keep from jostling it. "Murtagh, you forgot your scroll—"

Behind a wood partition at the side of the room, Murtagh yelped, and then a wood rack holding his wet clothes crashed to the floor. Tornac jumped and stepped around the partition half expecting to find his pupil collapsed on the floor from fever. Several pairs of hose went flying. Behind the wood screen, various articles of clothing were scattered on the floor, and Murtagh flailed through his small wardrobe, his eyes and hands darting every which way but never settling. He wore only his linen braies, his back turned.

Tornac froze, and his heart stuttered.

From Murtagh's right shoulder to his left hip was a white and jagged scar that devoured his small back. What the nursemaid had said was true—Morzan had thrown a sword at his son. The scar was so wide and rough that it was obvious healing magic had not been used, or if it had, just barely. All Tornac could imagine was a small boy of only three or four bleeding while his father thought to let him die. His hands clenched into fists and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Everyone knew of Morzan, and many people hated him for his atrocities against the dragons and Riders and also for his cruelty. Tornac had thought so little of him before that he could not muster any sort of hate. Now, however, he loathed him and wished he was alive so he could kill him again. Any man who left his child so wounded deserved nothing less.

"Get out!" Murtagh screamed, red all the way to the tips of his ears. He grabbed the nearest pair of leggings, rolled them into a ball and hurled them at Tornac. They fluttered to his feet without event, and so the boy snatched up another pair and tried again. Murtagh pressed his back to the wardrobe, for it was the scar that he was hiding. As he hurled everything he could, he shrieked, "Go away!"

Tornac blinked and then stepped around the partition, giving the boy his privacy. Clothing rustled briefly, and then there was silence.

He waited, and nothing happened.

After realizing Murtagh was not coming out, Tornac dared to step around the partition again. The boy was gone save for the tips of his toes that stuck out from beneath his clothing in the wardrobe. Various articles on hooks swayed over him, and he had gathered up all of the clothing off the floor and piled it around him so he was well covered. When Tornac approached, his toes curled.

Thus they remained for another long while as Tornac tried to think of what to say. His voice came out quieter than he would have liked, fearful that his words would hurt the boy he suddenly felt so protective of. "I know about the scar. Your nursemaid told me shortly after I met you." Then he sat on the floor next to the wardrobe and bent one knee, resting his arm over it. His heart was still not beating proper. "I know how it happened."

Murtagh's toes wriggled backwards until they too were covered. The lump of clothing shuddered.

"Please come out." Tornac leaned his head against the glossy wood of the wardrobe. "I want to speak with you face to face, and you have no reason to hide from me."

At first he received no response. Then, the clothing pile shifted. Murtagh wrestled with several articles in the wardrobe, and then his bare feet slid to the floor. In his panic he had failed to dress properly, so now he had different types of clothing hanging over his shoulders and arms in order to cover himself. One of his arms was stuffed into the tube of a hose while the other tube dangled at his side. Despite being inadequately clothed from the waist down, his back was thoroughly covered.

Murtagh padded over to Tornac and then settled on the floor at his side. He drew his knees to his chest and curled himself into a tight ball, squeezing his legs. A few stray tears ran down his cheeks, and his eyes were red. Twice he sniffled. Neither said anything, and Tornac stared at the wood screen, counting each panel but never passing ten before he was distracted again with thoughts about how much he hated this boy's father.

Finally, Murtagh shifted, resting his head on his bent knees. "My parents hated me."

Tornac gritted his teeth and released a shaky breath. All he could say in response was, "You deserved better."

It was slight, but the boy shook his head immediately. His lower lip quivered until he bit it, and then he whimpered, "Because I am bad."

Tornac turned his face towards Murtagh, and his pupil tightened further into a ball at the attention. "Bad?" The boy tipped his head forward and frowned at the floor. "Do you think you are bad?" At this, Murtagh nodded. "Why?"

"Because I am."

"Have you done something terrible?" Tornac asked. The boy's brow furrowed deeply, and his lips scrunched to one side. Perhaps he was entertaining himself with thoughts of throwing swords and tipping shelves of armor. Yet even Murtagh knew the difference between a child's poor behavior and the wrongness of an adult's cruel actions, and so he shook his head. "If you have done nothing, then what makes you bad?"

"My blood is bad," Murtagh explained, and his grip on his legs tightened.

"Did you choose your father?" Tornac kept his gaze on Murtagh now, his jaw set and his eyes slanted.

"No," whispered Murtagh, and his lower lip quivered again. "But my father is bad, and so am I. Everyone thinks so."

To hear such words from the lips of a child was like a knife to Tornac's chest. In all his years as a knight and then an instructor, he had never felt a blow quite like this. Tears stung his eyes. Tenderly, he responded, "I do not think you are bad."

It must have been the first time Murtagh heard anyone say such a thing. His head lifted off his knees as if suddenly weightless, and his eyes were wide. Several times he blinked at Tornac, and then his breath hitched in his throat and his face pinched into a terrible pout. His lower lip stuck out so far now that it could have caught and held all the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

"Someday you will meet others who see what I see in you," Tornac promised him. "And you will grow into a man who surpasses your father in every way. I have no doubt." Murtagh wiped his tears on the back of his hand and withheld a sob. Finally he met and held Tornac's gaze, and his breathing steadied. Cautiously, Tornac reached out and tugged on the pair of leggings that his student was attempting to wear like a shirt. "I do not think this goes here."

It was slight, and Murtagh attempted to keep them down, but the corners of his lips curled upward. Then he wiped his face with both hands to remove the smile and the tears.

Tornac rose and sifted through the mess of clothing in the wardrobe. It was no wonder the boy had resorted to wearing hose on his arms, for finding any one particular article of clothing was nigh impossible. How many leggings did one boy need? Briefly he recalled his own childhood and all the trips and falls and tears, and then he decided leggings were not meant for children at all. Finally he found a long white undershirt, and he flapped his hand for Murtagh to stand. The boy complied.

Unraveling himself from the bundle of clothes he had covered himself with, Murtagh handed the unnecessary articles to Tornac and received the shirt from him in their place. He slipped it over his head.

"Tomorrow you are cleaning this disaster," Tornac told him, pointing at the clothing heaped on the floor. Murtagh nodded and rubbed both of his eyes. Tornac put a hand on his shoulder and guided him around the partition and towards the bed. "How about you and I have a quiet meal here tonight?"

"I would like that," admitted Murtagh as he crawled onto his bed.

Tornac went back to the table near the door for the cup of tea. The instant his back was turned, he heard it. Murtagh sneezed tiny and pathetically, like a little mouse. Laughing, he brought the steaming drink to his student. Murtagh cradled the cup in both hands and sipped.

"To bed early tonight for you," he said. "I will see about a warm meal." Softly he ran his hand across Murtagh's damp hair, ruffling it in the hopes it would dry faster, and the boy blinked at him as though the gesture was completely foreign to him. Perhaps it was. "Rest. I will return shortly."

Murtagh dipped his head for a second but kept staring, and then finally he patted his hair back into place. All the while, his eyes were wide. A dull ache settled in Tornac's chest as he departed from the room.

* * *

Murtagh was in bed with a fever for the next several days.

During that time, Tornac only had the opportunity to visit him twice, once to check on his condition and a second time to deliver books. Both times his pupil was lethargic and tearful, and it was a jarring shift from the cheeky little boy Tornac knew well. A strong desire to protect Murtagh stirred in him with each visit.

In Murtagh's absence, Tornac spent several days practicing with former students who were now accomplished knights, reviewing their progress and hearing of their exploits in combat. It was not uncommon for him to check up on them and scold them for any shortcomings he found, but this time he came in a new frame of mind. He could not help but realize just how much of an oddity Murtagh was.

Most of the young men—his former students or otherwise—were wholly focused on pleasing the king and serving the Empire. Pride and glory were common motivators among them. Many knights trained with the sword for the sole purpose of catching the king's attention and gaining honor in battle. Nothing was particularly wrong with this, but Tornac wondered when they had stopped asking questions. No one questioned if the king was just or if the Empire was truly for the good of the people, and therefore no one questioned if this was where they should truly be seeking honor in the first place.

Likewise, the knights did not question if their battle techniques had fatal flaws. Tornac could call out a weakness and his former students would respond to his instruction, but none initiated the effort to truly understand their own limitations. On the other hand, a child like Murtagh wanted and needed to understand, and he would fish for information that Tornac was not yet willing to give. Perhaps it was a difference in their ages, for Murtagh was definitely the youngest pupil Tornac had ever taken, but certainly the disparity should not have been so vast.

Tornac thought quite highly of Murtagh and his clever, dangerous little mind.

After one of his visits to the knights' barracks, Tornac returned to the private training grounds of Galbatorix. He leaned against a wood post supporting the canopy and stared out onto the field. Pale moonlight stripped the world of color. A chorus of crickets and frogs sang beyond the castle walls, filling the night air with harmonic buzzing.

It was a peaceful night, but every muscle in Tornac's body was rigid. In all his years as an instructor, never had he had a student quite like Murtagh. Certainly as a teacher he had lofty aspirations for all of his students, even those that he regularly wanted to thrash with the flat side of a sword, but his expectations for Murtagh were significantly higher still. At first it was because the boy thought differently than most, and a powerful mind coupled with a strong body would be a combination not easily rivaled. Now, however, it was the child's resolve not to become like Morzan—or like Galbatorix—that made Tornac want to see him succeed.

This seven-year-old boy had everything any knight could have ever wanted, including a personal invitation from Galbatorix to serve him as his father did, and Murtagh resisted.

Tornac would never break him. Even if he wanted to, he doubted that he could. It filled him with a strange sense of satisfaction but also made him sick to his stomach. Failure meant death, and he had no desire to die. However, he would accept death if it meant not being the one who tried to crush Murtagh's spirit.

His only regret was that Murtagh would know precisely what happened to him and would bear another burden on his small shoulders for the rest of his life. It was the lesser of two evils. That night, Tornac made his decision.

* * *

Sunlight lit the training grounds on the day when Murtagh returned for his lessons. The boy went on about some things he read while recovering in bed, and then he took a bow and arrows and began firing into targets with expert precision. On more than one occasion he split arrows in half with a second or third arrow.

Each time an arrow hit its mark, Tornac's stomach turned over.

Taking the bow from his student, he aimed and fired an arrow across the field, hitting the low end of a round target. With his second arrow, he managed to strike near the center. Lowering the bow, he told Murtagh, "I was attempting to hit my first arrow." When the boy tipped his head, eyebrows pinched together, Tornac hung the bow on a wall with finality and said, "I have nothing left to teach you."

Murtagh stared at him, lips slightly parted. With a tremor in his voice, he insisted, "I do not have to practice archery. I can try something else."

Tornac faced the boy. His chest ached, and every word that left his lips had a similar effect to slapping Murtagh in the face. The boy crumbled with each syllable. "I am an instructor of the sword, Murtagh, and I refuse to place a sword in your hands." Tornac approached but maintained a slight distance between them. "Not because I think you cannot handle it but because I will not put you through it. As such, I cannot rightfully go on being your instructor."

Murtagh's lips twitched downward, and his eyes narrowed. If a weapon had been in the boy's hands, Tornac for the first time felt that he would have thrown it at him. In a tone too dark and chilling for a child, Murtagh said, "You will be hanged."

"Possibly," responded Tornac as calmly as he could. It took a great deal of effort on his part to keep his face static.

It was not a matter of choice. If Tornac had his way, he would continue on with Murtagh as they were. But he knew, and surely a smart boy like Murtagh knew as well, that the king would not accept this arrangement. Tornac died if he failed in his task, as he was now, and died if he rejected his task, as he intended to do. There were no other options. At least if it was his decision that received the king's wrath, Murtagh would be absolved of the blame.

Murtagh's cheeks burned red. Despite his typical death-giving look, which Tornac had not seen in a good long while, the boy's eyes filled with tears and his lower lip quivered. His breath hitched in his throat, and he stammered, "Y-you intend to leave me. Just like everyone else."

"I will not force you to do something I myself do not agree with," Tornac insisted, maintaining his calm while inside he was dying. "I will not make you become your father. I will have no part in it."

"Liar," hissed Murtagh, and tears made salty rivers down his face. "You are just like everyone else. My parents, everyone in the castle… You want to leave, too! You hate me just like everyone else!"

"I do not hate you." Tornac took a step forward, and Murtagh took a step back. "Not at all."

"Liar!" Murtagh's fierce expression crumbled like glass and he winced in deep, profound pain. His entire body trembled, and his hands rose to his eyes in a vain effort to keep his tears at bay. "You are just like everyone else!" With a restrained sob, he spun on his heels and darted into the castle, leaving Tornac alone.

It went exactly as Tornac expected, but he still had to lean against the wall as his knees weakened. A child who only knew rejection would only ever see rejection, and this would be the life that Murtagh would lead until someone—anyone—could show him otherwise. Unfortunately, Tornac would not be that someone.

Weak, he lowered himself to the floor and sat with his legs stretched in front of him and his hands folded across his abdomen. Perhaps without intention he had managed to break Murtagh after all. Tornac did not move again until well after dark.

* * *

Tornac received the summons from Galbatorix after Murtagh skipped the next three days of lessons. It came quickly, as he expected, but he had hoped for a little longer, though he did not know why. If the end was to come, better it come quickly than to hang over his head for days, weeks, or months. His meeting would be in the evening, and so he spent most of his final day putting his affairs in order. Once he walked the castle to Murtagh's private quarters but could not bring himself to enter. Murtagh's tears might make him lose his resolve.

In the late afternoon, he went to the castle training grounds.

Sitting on the elevated walkway in the training grounds, he stared at the dirt between his feet. Come what may, this was the right thing to do, and as he thought about it, the less anxious he became. Murtagh should not be forced to wield a sword and relive the sorrow his father inflicted upon him, and the boy should not be broken. Rather, Tornac hoped for the child to break every chain that anyone attempted to place on him.

The pitter-patter of small footsteps in the training hall made him rise, and Tornac turned to find Murtagh. The very sight of his student took his breath away and cleared his mind of anything he ought to have thought or said.

Murtagh stood in the doorway, and in his hands he held a sheathed sword.

"I want you to teach me," said the boy. The sword caused him no great anguish or turmoil, and he was certain of which he spoke. "Please teach me how to use a sword."

Tornac's chest ached. Despite the pride that welled in him over this child that consistently impressed him, he knew that it was not meant to be. Gingerly he took the sword from Murtagh and set it on the walkway, and then he took the boy's hands in his own. "That is not necessary, Murtagh. I know what it means to you and what it reminds you of. I will not inflict that upon you every day."

"I am not afraid of swords," Murtagh explained. "I am afraid that what everyone says is true—that I am my father. But I have decided I will not become like him." At this, the boy smiled, and it was the first true smile Tornac had seen on his face. It was jaded yet innocent and made his gray eyes shine. Murtagh concluded, "I will become _better_ than him." Taking back his hands, the boy lifted the sword again and gave it to Tornac. "I am ready to learn how. Please be my instructor, Tornac."

Tears stung Tornac's eyes. Better than Morzan—of this he had no doubt. There was not a thing about this child that did not already far surpass Morzan. Tornac accepted the sword and answered, "I would be honored."

Thus began the boy's study of swordsmanship, and when Tornac spoke with the king that evening, he informed him with pleasure that Murtagh had taken up the sword. It was with pleasure not because the king had his way but because Tornac felt he had _not_ had his way. Murtagh was not broken, and he would not become like Morzan.

Murtagh would be something far greater than his father, and Tornac dedicated himself wholly to making it so.


End file.
